Resplendent Files (No. 2)
As a child the greatest feeling other than a mothers love is the end of school and the beginning of summer. This child who has gone through school (which in his perspective, Hell) to finally be release from an unfair and unruly set of governments out into the anarchist playground. Now clearly I am over exaggerating, but am I really? Quite frankly, I've never been one to experience Summer. All of mine were stolen away from me. My Father died before I had ever met him. Because of this I have had no male influence, or at least no good male influence. I cannot stand up for myself, I've never been taught that. I cannot think for myself, that's something that needs to be learned from a father. Since I was never provided with a father, I needed to find new ways to learn these skills. I first started with my mother. Her first name was Susan, her maiden name was Tuplind. As a mother, she fed me and cared for me in every way she could. I was fed three times a day, full course meals. My favorite meal was breakfast. I loved waking up to the scent of eggs and bacon. Something so scrumptious made just for me. Funny how simple words like that remind you of the absence of a father, just for me. I soon lost the enjoyment of those mornings when school rolled along. I had grown older, and the walls of my home grew colder. My mother pulled me from public school in the third grade. She recalls me telling her a story about how Mr. Portmen had played a special game with me that no one else could know about. Of all my days as a youngster I remember the day my mother drew a picture of a stick figure and asked me to point where Mr Portman said the game started. I would point, and when I did, she began crying but strong and said I was a good boy for telling her. She ran her soft fingers through my hair and hugged me. Her hugs were medicine. Isn't that what mothers are though, medicine? I was in home schooling for the next three years. By the time it was fifth grade, my mother placed me back into a more social environment. Even though I felt displaced in this new setting, private school was acceptable. She was very nervous about letting me go into a school building at the time. Three years seemed so long to me, being that I was only ten years old now. To her though, it must have felt like five minutes, and I was entering back into Mr. Portman's class to play a game. Throughout the rest of my school years, my mother walled me from anything she deemed unsafe or unhealthy. My separation from a normal life only made this safe one worse. I never knew the in thing, I never had the popular clothing. The kids at the school rejected me. I didn't understand why they disliked me. Sometimes I'd begin crying in class silently. When another student would notice, I immediately became the center of attention. I began to become pelted with every object a classroom could hold that was light enough for a child to throw. One time the teacher required that I stop crying all the time because I would disrupt her class too much. I don't see how telling me to stop would make a difference, the many raps on my knuckles never stopped me from crying, quite the opposite. In eighth grade, I met a girl named Meredith. So as my life exceeded, my mothers fell behind. On June 5, 1964, my mother committed suicide. I walked into my mothers room looking for laundry and saw her lying in the bed, silent. Many empty cases of pills were lying on her bedside table. Officials gave me a note that was tucked under her shirt when they had searched her room. The note said: Honey Dearest, Remember the old saying, Curiosity killed the cat? For some reason this phrase has been embedded into my very brain for the past 2 years. It got me thinking, why is curiosity killing the cat? What makes curiosity so mad that it wanted to slaughter a poor little cat? Sometimes I would sit for hours upon hours and contemplate little phrase, trying to understand what it meant. I even went to the point of researching what it even meant. Would you like to know what I learned? Of course you would my love. For how else do you better understand something without a little background? Curiosity killed the cat, or originally known as, care killed the cat, was an old proverb which was printed first in 1598, in the play Every Man In His Humor. It was an original play written by a British playwright whose name was Ben Johnson. In 1599, Shakespeare even used this proverb in his play Much Ado About Nothing: "What, courage man! what though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care." Ebenezer Cobham Brewer in 1898 included a definition to go with the this phrase "Care killed the Cat. It is said that 'a cat has nine lives,' yet care would wear them all out." In 1909, a short story written by O. Henry titled "Schools and Schools" explains it in more depth here: "Curiosity can do more things than kill a cat; and if emotions, well recognized as feminine, are inimical to feline life, then jealousy would soon leave the whole world catless." Care killed the cat. Not sure I've ever heard of it said this way until I stumbled upon it. I think I enjoy that saying more than Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity only eludes to wonder at how something works or is. Care becomes a more personal calling, it brings upon thoughts of worry, woe, and sorrow. Though care can also cause you to love, which is never a bad thing. Things became tough as you grew older. I should have known that you would mature and want to be with your friends more than me. It's only natural. To be honest though, I don't think I was built to let go of you. If you didn't know this already, I found out about Meredith. Now don't think I was following you around or anything. A mother can see it in her sons eyes when he looks at that special someone. It's the same look your father would give me when we gazed at each other. I miss your father. There aren't better words to describe it than as missing. You may not have noticed but when I would make a lot of food sometimes, it wasn't cause I knew you were hungry. Truthfully, I would go back to the days when I was a child making a large portion of food for an invisible friend of mine. I never expected the extra serving to be eaten, oftentimes I would let it sit while I sat and waited. I was eager to see if something would really move the meal I provided. I wish that happened when I made those extra meals at dinner. I wish it wasn't just your voice asking for more. Alas, I see you are content with Meredith. I know you will do great. There's a lot of your father in you. If you don't mind, I'll leave you with an another instance where curiosity killed the cat. Stephen King writes often in his novels a line that I find nice. "Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought him back" You brought him back Honey. Now I'm gonna go see him. Susan, Your Mother My mother's life never came across as broken, but now mine was. She may have known how I looked at Meredith, awe inspired, at the beauty of her creation. I'm not sure if my mother ever saw Meredith look at me though. She would do whatever everyone else did, disregard my existence. Now my life was left in shambles, and I wondered where God was. Excerpt from Resplendent File Article 1 I felt it a requirement to have such a large chunk of the files posted for you because I'm going to talk about it. Like Susan said, I should give you guys a little background, or just a bigger understanding of it. My first run through Father Jeremiah's Article 1 didn't leave me impressed. The more I read it though, the more his writing appealed to me. The heart that's placed into each word seems precise and exact, almost like it took him fifteen years to write this story, not completed fifteen years ago. His childhood really just sucks, for lack of a better word. I can see why he would grow to fear God. Father Jeremiah just kept getting things taken away from him over and over. First his father, then his innocence, a content school life, and a mother. No doubt that this would cause submission. Wonder what the Big Man was thinking. And who was Meredith? "In eighth grade, I met a girl named Meredith." Why is this even relevant to the story besides it being in Susan's note. Was she just some random girl? Well, from my experience, a writer has a point to everything that is said. So she must be important somehow. It's beyond me though. I've never thought of it before until now, but have you ever thought of the life of a mother? Now please think past the nursing and working in the kitchen jokes you hear and ACTUALLY think. I don't even think the mothering process begins at birth so much after thinking hard about it. There has to be a lot of mental prep for a new mother before hand. The thought of bringing forth new life into the world and calling it your own. Not to mention the stress of pregnancy and birth. Then as the baby is out and about, she needs to be home to watch and take care for it. Here comes the stress of worrying over a fragile newborn. I mean, anything could be dangerous when someone is that small. Taking baths and walking up and down steps seem like they would be unbelievably dangerous. Now the child is starting to talk, so the mother begins to watch what they say so they don't learn inappropriate speech. Since he can talk she puts the child into Preschool. Having fears of what could happen there in the back of her head. Sadly for Susan, those fears came true, and that's probably what made her "curious". Her fear of what might happen next got her thinking and thinking. Junior High and High School comes along and this child is now a young adult. Capable of making his own choices, he strays further from his mother, but there is still a connection, it isn't severed. The mother is now worried he will treat a girl wrong. The perversion that a boy can grow up to become is probably on her mind often. Enough about mom's. That's an odd topic. Last Tuesday I went to hang out with a friend of mine at a club. Club Dawn, kinda seems cliche, and yet none has named their club that. My friend Jonny Greenwood (Just a cover up name. It's not REALLY Jonny Greenwood. He looks like Jonny though, so why not name him that?) and I went to Club Dawn at about 9 PM that night. The usual DJ was playing his custom mixes and the bartender had my cold beer ready for me. The Club seemed more crowded then usual, I didn't mind. It just meant I had more chances to get shot down by older woman. Oh wait, I have an arranged marriage. While talking to a girl whose name I cant remember. Probably caused by the Heineken, my hearing would drop in and out. That could also be the reason I don't remember her name. I thought it was just the blaring of repetitive bass kicks in my ears so I stepped outside. The girl decided she would follow me, holding onto my arm with her clammy hands like we were an item. I wasn't going to shake her off, but with how much she was drinking, I practically had to hold her up. Stepping out into the chilly air, I looked around, tall buildings and lights really ruin the night sky. No stars. I forgot about mystery girl for a moment and just took in the night air. It was filled with car fumes and any other dirty smells you would expect in a city. I can't exactly explain the smells, nothing really smells like it, but I'll try my best. Wet dog mixed with sour eggs, throw and mix in some sweat from a man who worked out all day, and put a background smell of dying rodents. None of these were pleasant, neither is the real smell of a city. Coming back into myself, I remembered I had someone on my arm who expected me to safely get her to her apartment, and maybe expected more than that. I couldn't drive because as much as she was wasted, I had quite a few drinks too. It takes only a fraction of a second for your brain to register what you want to say, and then for your mouth to say it. Because of this proven fact, I wondered why I wasn't saying anything at this moment. More or less, why I couldn't hear myself speak, I felt my lips move. I even saw everyone else mouths move, still no noise. Almost like everyone's vocal chords just shut down. I could still hear all the sounds that are made up throughout a city, sirens, yelling, the occasional gun shot. Thankfully, not talking to anybody in a city or in a cab that is picking somebody up isn't exactly abnormal. The cab driver probably thought I was either mental or from a different country. At least I didn't have to talk, She did it all. While in the cab, she kept trying to snuggle up with me while I tried to get her seat belt on. Women these days. While in the cab, driving at around 30 miles an hour with the occasional red light, I began to feel dizzy beyond belief. I couldn't look outside for more than a few seconds without my eyes almost rolling back into my head. Now that I had rusted nails being shoved into and then moved within my brain, I turned to only look at what was in the cab. I looked at the misses in the opposing seat. She wasn't model worthy, but she was worth the time of day. She was light chocolate skinned. Straight hair went down to her shoulders, maybe a little bit further, Brunette. Her eyes were on the brink of being to far apart and to far into her skull. They were a light yellow, very unique color. Her eyelashes were thick, making it look like I'd would be blown away when she blinked. Her nose already looked like a nose job had been done, though no obvious signs of one. Then her lips. Soft, dark pink lipstick, says "I'm dirty but shy". She didn't do a good job of matching her clothes though. Maybe she was color blind, I wouldn't put it past myself to think that. Then I looked up at the driver as I began to grow tired of her (let's give her a name... Yasmin). Hard to describe him at this point, his eyes were on the road, as they should. He ran a stop light, a near miss from a passing Toyota. I forgave him, but then he continued to run stop lights, and I could hear the cars behind us that were crashing, and the shrieks from the passengers whose limbs were probably now either severed or immobilized. Now my body began to feel nightmarish, not because I was afraid, clearly this driver could go fast enough to not get us crashed, but the other people he just ignored as if they didn't exist. Just offing them like game. By this point I looked at Yasmin, she was so far out of it I didn't even know if she was human anymore. My jaw was now soar from my own teeth gritting against themselves that I had to open my mouth and stretch it. As my mouth opened, fluids that should have stayed in my stomach poured onto the car seat. The mixture of dread, dizziness, and alcohol turned like a whirlpool and I couldn't help but ruin the guys car seat. Yasmin didn't even look at me disgusted. Thinking I would die from an accident by this crazy man, or from fear, I grabbed her hand, feeling like it would be the last woman i see in my life. Cold, one thing I know about people with clammy hands is that they never go cold. Looking up at her again I noticed her eyes lost the color they originally were. She had died, and i knew it for sure. How? She was just sitting there! Did she really drink that much? With her limb body lying there with those pale eyes staring me down, I leaned back as far against the door I could. The consistent screams of terror continued as the driver blew street light after street light. This is about the time he turned and looked at me. All sound dropped as his eyes met mine. I tried to look away but my eyes were completely relaxed. My heart and mind began to fade away, and I began to have tunnel vision. All that my eyes saw were his eyes equally leveled. His mouth began to open. I couldn't see it, but I could tell by how his eyes had squinted slightly. My muscles felt like they were being pulled toward him, straight off the bone. A feeling only comparable to the awful growing pains you get when your growing up as a child, only worse when it never lets up. All noise cut out, every thing was silent now. No more screams, no more crashing. I could see now, no more tunnel vision. The movement out the window froze. I don't mean frozen like still and un-moving, more like, a photo that captures motion but has a major blur along the movement. The car had practically frozen in time relative to my vision and its movement. Seeing the drivers mouth, I shuttered. Teeth, if you could call them that, had grown in all kinds of direction. There was no back to his throat, just black. From what it looked like, It wasn't dark like the absence of light, but dark like nothing could exist there. He began to speak. What came out of his mouth was not what I expected. He asked if I was alright. His voice so calm and soft. Time continued. And as time continues, motion does too. Of all things to stop moving though, it was my cab. We were in the center of an intersection, and so were many other cars about to crush us. The initial jolt of the crash commenced, my head whipped back and forth, left and right. Slow motion came back to me, Almost like a film would to show off how intense the crash would be. I still felt every single shard of metal, glass, stone, and rubber shooting into my skin. Time slowed, so I could feel these objects shooting into my skin at such slow speeds I began screaming. my scream never came, It took to long to muster up the power to do it. Yasmin flew out her seat belt. The driver continued to look at me, his mouth now opened abnormally wide and his eyes still piercing me. His mouth continued to open. The crash must have jolted him, causing his head to swing, and with his mouth open, it must have caused it to open to wide. His cheeks began to rupture, and I could see his jaw and cheek bone separate from each other. A car was crushing into his side of the cab and it had after so much time hit him in the back, his head swung again and his neck tore, not enough to kill him though. Yasmin was now in the air between the seats. Glass was slowly flowing into my eyes. My loss of vision wasn't as instantaneous as I thought it would be. Black began to cloud my eyes from the inside out, Not how I thought it would be either. The rubber from the tires was now burning right into my skin, they must have heated up when the drivers hit the brakes. The slow rise in pain was unbearable as everything began to ride through my skin. Glass tearing into my eyes, heading through my head and slicing through everything in its way. The metal of both the cab and car started to bend my arm out of shape, my legs were now being cut from the knee down. My scream still hadn't reached out of my body. All my senses began to diminish. Yasmin landed on me. Then I began to hear Yasmin telling me to move so she could get out of the cab. I looked at her puzzled. What in the world just happened? Wasn't I just dying? Still burnt from my many beers though, I shoved it into the back of my head for later. I was glad Yasmin's face was the first thing that brought me back to real life. I was so relieved that I was eager to do anything tonight. We were at her building, it wasn't all that bad. I didn't exactly have the condition of the apartment home in my mind. Yamsin grabbed a hold of my hand and pulled me out of the car. I dropped a couple dollars into the cab and shut the door. The smell of the city wasn't here. I hadn't looked around yet, turns out she lives around the suburbs. It was nicer then the city though, more trees. That and the smell are the only differences between the city and the suburbs. Yasmin had me step up into her apartment home, and she lead me through the home up to her apartment. She lived on the third floor. Her room wasn't that bad. It was modern looking white and black as well. reassuring my previous inference that she might be color blind. She continued to pull me throughout her apartment, we ended up in her kitchen. She told me to wait where I was and did a quick turn towards her cabinets. Yasmin pulled out some wine glasses and wine to go with them. I thought she was crazy at first for even thinking getting MORE drunk was a good idea, but then she was drunk, so she had no good ideas. She was about to place the glasses and wine onto the table when the slow motion feeling came back. She then started to fall. Standing there unable to move fast enough to grab her and help, I watched as she fell onto her clean white floor. She put her hand out to stop her fall but the glasses were in her hand. First the bottom of the glasses began to shatter, the shards shot in all directions. As she continued to fall, the glasses shattered up into her skin, her hand and wrist began to be riddled with glass. blood was now seeping through the cuts and slowly spattered onto the ground. Time sped up and then slowed down again. Her face was now landing in the glass, I was glad not to see it. Wine and blood was now mixing to create a dark black stain on the floor. I started to fall onto my knees, I didn't know what I could do, my body was just being weird, and nothing was happening right. Yasmin had died again. Time froze, and all that changed was my hearing. It seemed to speed up to some point in time and continued to proceed from then on out. All I heard was heavy breathing and an occasional wine. The television was on, I could hear it in the background, it began to drown out the breathing. The news was on, talking of an incident at Club Dawn. Then time began to clock back into the right place (heck by this point I didn't know what part in time was the right place.) I was being pushed down, sweat poured from my body, and I felt a strain below my hips. The wake of the sheets in Yasmin's bed was small, and the television was on loud. Yasmin's quiet wails were finding there way through the sound of the news broadcaster. I couldn't feel any scars from glass on her. My body felt at a high, and hers was higher. Time would freeze occasionally at this point, and I didn't mind it that much. Of all the times time could break, this was the best time. The news station on the television, which I thought was on way to loud, brought up Club Dawn again and said people were coming out of it being extremely sick and seeing delusions. Someone apparently spiked every drink in the entire vicinity. The drug was still unknown to the station, and I was to distracted to care. Yasmin had fallen asleep by 4 PM, ad my body was so empty I didn't feel like rising out of the bed. It felt peaceful having her hold me close. I felt important to someone, even if it was only for the night. Having someone your supposed to marry consistently reject you is hard, and this feeling with Yasmin seemed to make the resentment Carolyn had of me feel void. Maybe I should just forget about Carolyn. Could I last a lifetime with a drunken whore? Would that really be all that bad? What do I really want though, a feel good relationship or one that is full of ups and downs and that's full in every aspect, good and bad. Is missing all acts of relations with Carolyn worth a couple good nights with Yasmin? I slept with her that night. The next morning I was thrown out of her apartment, she thought I had snuck into her apartment at night, she said I stole her innocence. There was no stain on her kitchen floor, and I didn't have momentary lapses of slow motion. Hopefully this drug didn't screw me over. Why does my mind play these tricks on me? I've always sort of noticed odd things as a child but never this hardcore. I'm seeing things that aren't happening and my senses aren't even acting in time. They just do what they want. When I was young the most that would happen is my eyes would drop in sight. My doctor would tell me that's common in some cases, and I shrugged it off. My hearing would once in a while drop in and out but I didn't think it was that bad, I'd just ask for things to be repeated often. Maybe I'm getting sick. Or sicker. ... OK, now I'm chuckling to myself. I've never realized how those presses of the enter key can add some ominous feeling to those lines. "Maybe I'm getting sick. Or sicker. ..." It makes them prominent, that's neat. That's off topic, I guess I'll explain whats happening now, and then I'll sign off. I'm again at the public cafe I was at before. It's cozy, makes me feel safe and comfortable. I do not have vodka in my thermos, I actually have some green iced tea. I've decided straying away from the alcohol might prove well on my part. This will be the fourth time I'm trying this. Wish me luck. I'm tired of typing, It cramps my hand to much. Typing a story on a computer, typewriter, or writing always causes my hands to hurt with the most awful sensation. I should invent some sort of mind reading story maker. In the meantime, I'll finish this nice cup of tea, and enjoy my life. Maybe Carolyn will call, or at least pick up. Anything worth talking about I'll let you know. -NAMELESS 10/19/11 Previous Entry Resplendent Files (No. 1) Next Entry Resplendent Files (No. 3) Category:Reality Category:Places Category:Diary/Journal